


Sand and Blood

by sans_patronymic



Category: Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms, Sherlock Holmes - Arthur Conan Doyle
Genre: Angst, Colonialism, Developing Relationship, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, F/M, Frottage, Hand Jobs, M/M, Mild Gore, PTSD John, Sharing a Bed, War
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-06-25
Updated: 2016-07-10
Packaged: 2018-07-18 05:46:31
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 11,418
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7301854
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sans_patronymic/pseuds/sans_patronymic
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Watson is haunted by the mistakes he made during the war and the ones he continues to make after it.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

_They had already retreated to Khig. When it starts, he is always in Khig. He is always in Khig and the man in front of him is always going to die. The man always asks for water and he always says he’ll get him some, even though the water ran out hours ago. Some of the men broke into the officers’ stores, but all they found was whiskey. Some of them drank it anyway and their useless, drunken singing mingles with the distant sound of artillery._

_“I’m done for, ain’t I?” the man always asks._

_Sometimes he tells him the truth. Most of the time he lies, but the man isn’t stupid, he always knows. Either way, there is always the sound of someone running, the dirt crunching under boots, a swirling cloud of dust, a yell to fall back._

_What happens next is always different._

_This time, he is sure he can stop the bleeding, if only he can get the bullet out. He can’t find any of his tools—his kit is missing—but this time it doesn’t matter, because this time the hole in the man’s side is shallow enough that he can see the metallic dot. It is close enough to the surface he could touch it. This time, it should be easy._

_The man winces as he jabs a finger in after the bullet, but it isn’t there. He can see it, but he can’t feel it. He pushes harder and the man screams, but it isn’t there. His fingers press past skin, past muscle, he feels the slippery tangle of innards and the man is begging him to stop. This time, he does not stop. This time, he does not panic at the sound of approaching horses. This time, he does not get up and run with the rest of the regiment. This time, he digs and digs into the man, until he is up to his elbows in blood and meat. He knows that if he can just find the bullet, this time everything will be fine._

_But it isn’t there._

 

When he opens his eyes, he’s blind. Blind and deaf: the Afghan sun has been replaced by darkness, the roaring sound of hooves reduced to the clatter of a single hansom somewhere in the street below. Baker street. 221b. His room. His bed. Slowly, he locates himself and the hammering in his chest slows. The room smells like stale tobacco instead of blood and it takes him a while to believe this is not part of the dream too. 

He sits up and buries his head in his hands. Sweat sneaks into his eyes and stings like mad. His skin burns with desert heat. He is sure that if he opened his veins, scorching sand would pour out in great, mounting piles. Too hot to touch, too bright to see. He tells himself it is dangerous to sit alone with cowardly thoughts like these. During the war he had rarely slept alone, not when leave or conquest or comrades permitted otherwise. In the two months before Maiwand, he spent nearly every night with somebody, one way or another.

He thinks of the dark-haired woman in Kandahar, whose name he can never remember because he had never asked it. Out of the five of them, he was the one she picked. He thinks of the way she laughed at their rude jokes, of the delicate feel of her hand in his. How easily she had brought him home, had lain with him. She was all lithe lines and bright smiles. Only afterwards, as she sat up in the moonlight, solemnly, reflexively braiding her long hair, did he notice the truth in her sad eyes: she was terrified of him. 

_You have a kind face_ , she told him—haltingly, in her best attempt at an invader's tongue— _Not like the others_. In his mind, her voice is rich, musical. It makes his stomach turn. 

Bare feet make strange, sticky sounds on the bare wood of the hall. He crosses the sitting room rug silently as a panther. Holmes’s bedroom door yawns wide to reveal the preternatural dark his flatmate so prefers: shade pulled, curtains drawn, the faintest sound of breathing. The cave of some fantastic creature. The hero enters, guided only by a single candle; its wavering light casts impish shadows against the walls, the bed, the man curled up in it. Sleep brings a sense of mortality to Holmes’s features. He looks fragile, porcelain. Crushable. Smash-able.

“John?”

For a moment the grey eyes hold as much fear as the dark-haired woman’s. Holmes repeats his name two or three times before he realizes why: What a sight he is, barefoot, sweat-soaked, holding a candle and looming over his friend in the night. 

“I can’t sleep,” he offers lamely.

“Oh.” Holmes pushes himself up on one elbow. Holmes’s face is disordered by sleep, but he can still see the fear melt into something more benign and sickening: pity. Guilt wells up, making him wish he had stayed behind with his dreams of sand and blood.

“I don’t know what came over me.” A lie. “I’m sorry to’ve disturbed you.” A truth.

“I don’t mind,” Holmes says and he can tell that is a truth too. 

Holmes is still looking at him and he wonders how far he can see. The man who can spot footprints three yards away, the man who can identify a suspect from a flake of tobacco ash. Holmes can see his distress, but can he discern the reason? Can he see the dark-haired woman’s breasts? Can he see the dying man in Khig?

The candle is burning crooked; wax pours down one side and onto his hand. He curses and would have dropped it, but Holmes catches his wrist in time. Holmes peels the wax off his thumb and sets the chamberstick on the bedside table without letting go of him. Holmes turns his hand over, looks at the red spot the wax left behind. Holmes’s lips purse with concern and he wonders what they taste like. He wonders how those beautiful hands would feel wrapped around his cock. He wonders what face Holmes makes when he orgasms—does he cry out? When Holmes looks up at him again, he is sure Holmes knows what he is thinking. He is sure Holmes will tell him to go back to bed. To his own bed, because this is not war and friendship here does not work that way. To leave and to never come back.

Instead, Holmes is still holding his wrist and asks: “Why don’t you lie down?”

The bed creaks getting into it and the mattress is warm. After the candle is extinguished, the smell of smoke drifts through the room and in the darkness he begins to panic. There is not enough room for both of them, his elbow keeps bumping into Holmes’s chest. Under the covers, his foot brushes against Holmes’s ankle. Holmes is motionless, cowering against the wall, and this was a terrible idea. Holmes is his truest—to be honest, his only—friend, and he climbed into bed with him after a bad dream, like a child. He thinks it would have been better to let the sand loose from his veins than to humiliate himself like this. But it is too late; this is unfixable. The man in Khig will always die and he will always crawl into Holmes’s bed, too afraid to sleep alone.

“I don’t know what to do,” Holmes whispers and he smirks because he was thinking the same thing.

“I don’t know what to do,” Holmes repeats and he realizes now that he is crying. 

Not just crying, sobbing. A monsoon has unleashed itself somewhere inside him. His chest aches and rattles, his hands shake, and with every breath he is making the most horrid, most pathetic sound he has ever heard. He hopes it is possible to cry oneself to death.

Arms wrap around him and pull him close. A hand cradles the back of his head and tucks it under Holmes’s chin. His hands grip at the front of Holmes’s nightshirt and through the thin fabric and thinner skin he can feel Holmes’s pulse leaping and hurdling at twice the speed it ought. But Holmes’s breaths are loud and slow. They are a reminder, a command: breathe. It is difficult—his nose is congested, his lungs sting—but he tries to follow. In-and-out. In and out. In. Out. Little by little, the monsoon dissipates.

“Forgive me,” he wheezes to Holmes, to the dark-haired woman in Kandahar, to the dying man in Khig. “Please, forgive me.”

“There is nothing to forgive,” they say, “now sleep.”

And just before he does, they press a kiss against his lips.


	2. Chapter 2

When he wakes again, he is alone and he is certain it was a dream. But the birds seem louder than usual in their morning chatter and when he opens his eyes, the room is laid out all wrong. The scent of the crowded ashtray hits him just as his eyes make out the sinister portraits on the wall and he realizes the birds are louder because the branches of the plane tree just meet Holmes’s window. 

He sits up in a bed which is not his, in a room which is not his, remembering how he stalked in here last night, how he all but inserted himself into his friend’s bed, had wept, had been held by him, and liked it. He wishes to disappear. He is not a praying man, but he prays that the Earth will open up and swallow him whole. 

He is thirsty. His throat is dry and sore. His eyes feel enormous and he presses the heels of his hands against them until he sees stars, but when he takes his hands away he is still in Holmes’s room and last night still happened.

The shade has been opened, the drapes, pulled aside. The window does not catch much light in the morning, it isn’t positioned well for it, but it is more than Holmes would want and he knows this gesture is for him. From the hook on the back of the door, his own dressing gown greets him. When he turns to get out of bed, his slippers are waiting. 

In the sitting room, Holmes is already at the table, drinking his coffee and reading the paper as if it were any other morning. When he sits down, Holmes does not offer him coffee, or look at him with worried eyes, or even say ‘good morning’. He is not sure if this is a good sign, or an inverse one, but he is thankful all the same. His eggs have already gone cold, but he chokes them down anyway.

“The paper.” 

Holmes has closed it and is offering it to him; his voice sounds as it normally does. Holmes looks as he normally does. Holmes is already dressed. He tries to remember hearing Holmes waking, climbing out of bed, dressing, but he can’t. Not the creak of the mattress, nor the sound of footsteps, nor the faintest scrape of a dresser drawer. His sleep was a blackness absolute. Holmes is frowning at him now and he notices Holmes’s lips are moving and he has not been listening.

“I’m sorry?” 

These seem fitting first words.

“Did you sleep well?” questions Holmes with the strained annunciation he always affects when asked to repeat himself. It is a welcome sound. Annoyance is not pity. 

“Oh. Yes.” And realizing this is true, he adds, “Yes, I did.”

“Excellent.” 

Holmes looks at him. Not with concern or fear, but with a particular, Holmesian curiosity. Holmes is looking at him as if he were the most interesting thing in the room, which he knows is not true because there is an Indonesian puzzle box on the mantel which has been infuriating Holmes for three days. But for a moment, he believes it, and he feels terribly important. He wants, suddenly, to tell Holmes about his dreams, about the dying man in Khig, about Maiwand, about the awful things he did in Peshawar. Everyone wants to hear about acts of bravery. No one wants to hear about acts of cowardice. No one wants to hear how he left a man to die in agony, rolling in the dust because he lacked the courage to put a bullet in his head. Of the dozens he told ‘I’ll be back’ knowing they would die before he returned. But Holmes keeps looking at him and he thinks, perhaps, he might listen.

The front bell rings and Holmes looks away to check his watch. “That will be Lestrade. I will give you five minutes to dress, if you care to join us.”

“Of course,” he answers and marvels at how easily the day goes on as it normally does.

 

It is nearly nine when they finally return. Holmes is frustrated. For the whole cab ride home, Holmes outlines his numerous grievances against warrants and lazy magistrates. He does not exactly follow Holmes’s argument. He is not sure if he even understands the case. All day, he floundered in legal jargon, the adrift amateur among a sea of professionals and very learned suspects who are not keen to have someone go through their things. Even his notes are no help—they are only snatches of irrelevant conversations and a description of a law clerk with a bulbous nose and amusing eyebrows.

He is glad to be home. Mrs. Hudson sends up cold sandwiches and in eating them he discovers how hungry he is. His wants are few and easily met: sandwich, brandy, chair. There is the tell-tale pluck of violin strings. He expects Holmes to rage with his bow, but he does not. Instead, Holmes plays something that was probably not meant to be played on the violin, but at least sounds like music. Some sort of march. He does not recognize it, but his fingers tap along easily enough. Sandwich, brandy, chair, music. Holmes wanders amongst the furniture as he plays, and he can’t help thinking how fine Holmes looks, how good Holmes was at convincing that clerk, how proud he is to be his friend. Sandwich, brandy, chair, music, Holmes: he has all five and thinks he could not possibly want anything else.  


 

_“I’m done for, ain’t I?” the man asks like always._

_“No, you aren’t,” he lies and this time he can’t find the wound at all._

_There is blood, lots of blood, but every place he wipes clean reveals nothing: just skin, closed, perfect. Not even a scratch, not even a navel. This time the man has no navel and he doesn’t know where the blood is coming from. But the man bleeds and screams and the horses are thundering close once again._

_“Oh God,” whispers the man, his voice is cold with terror, “I’m dying.”_

_“But you aren’t,” he stammers and this time he means it. “There’s nothing wrong with you, you aren’t—“_

_When he looks up, the man’s head is half-gone._  


 

The lamp by the sitting room door is still lit. He is still in his chair, though he nearly topples out of it in waking. The afghan falls to the floor. It must have been around his shoulders, which means someone must have put it there. His head hurts and his mouth tastes unpleasantly of over-sweet brandy and cold pheasant. He tries to get up, but his legs are shaking and his foot has gone numb. He waits, flexing his foot, and hates himself.

Holmes’s door is ajar. Holmes always shuts his door, yet this time, it is open. The significance of this is not lost on him. He is sure to close it behind him as he enters. He sits on the edge of the bed, untying his boots and wondering how much clothing to remove. He strips down to his vest and drawers and as he slips beneath the covers, he feels naked. 

The darkness fills his eyes and he doesn’t want to blink because darkness is better than what an artillery shell can do to a man’s legs. His mind churns and he wills it to pick better images. Pleasant ones. If pleasant is impossible, agreeable ones. The woman from Cardiff with magnificent breasts, who called him ‘Johnny boy’. The green eyes of the Second Lieutenant who taught him the best cure for seasickness requires two cocks and a steady hand. The arse on the—

The bed creaks and shifts as Holmes turns over to face him. The room is black as pitch, but he can feel Holmes’s eyes on him. He doesn’t know how exactly, but he is sure Holmes knows what he was thinking. He is sure this time Holmes will tell him to leave. Tell him he doesn’t want a degenerate for a friend. Tell him he should be ashamed of himself. He is ashamed. 

Instead, a leg brushes against his leg, an arm comes around his chest. The hand on the arm cautiously makes its way from his chest to his stomach. It waits. It hesitates. When there is no objection, it pushes his vest aside and Holmes's hand runs across his bare skin. He does not know why the hand is there, but he doesn't want it to leave. His thumb caresses Holmes's wrist. He closes his eyes and pictures Holmes’s hands. Agreeable. Pleasant.

The room is so silent that when he swallows, the sound nearly echoes. Holmes's face is close to his. Holmes's breath tickles his neck. When Holmes speaks, he feels it as much as hears it. 

"Sleep," Holmes commands. 

And like a good soldier, he obeys.


	3. Chapter 3

In the morning, it is not just the birds, but a quiet clattering of glass against wood that tells him where he is. When he opens his eyes, a tall man in a dark suit stands in front of the mirror, rearranging bottles on the dressing table. Holmes begins to smooth his hair and he can smell musky oil from here. Holmes does not seem to notice him. He smiles at opportunity to observe the master observer, unobserved. The opportunity is brief. Holmes catches sight of him in the mirror and, for an instant, Holmes smiles at him. A warm, sort of fond smile. A coming-home smile. At least, that is the type of smile it might be. He doesn’t see it for long, he can’t quite judge it properly, but that is the sort of smile he thinks it is and it gives him courage. Today, he decides to be brave. The decision is short-lived.

“Good morning,” he says as he stretches his arms overhead. 

Holmes raises his finger to his mouth to ask for silence and the silence wounds him. So much for bravery. With a frown, Holmes nods towards the door and when he listens he can hear the rattling of breakfast dishes being set out. Holmes’s hands gesture to his clothes from last night, which have been neatly laid out on a chair by the dressing table. Even his socks are folded. Holmes’s eyes tell him plainly, silently, to dress and to wait.

"Good morning, Mrs. Hudson," Holmes says once he is on the other side of the door. 

"Oh, good morning, Mr. Holmes. Here’s the paper and some post for you. Do you think I ought to wake the doctor? You know how he hates to miss breakfast."

Holmes chuckles in a way that says he agrees and he frowns because he did not know he hated to miss breakfast.

"No need. I have seen him earlier this morning; I suspect he shall be down shortly."

“Very well,” says the landlady and her voice is growing closer. “I’ll be doing the linens today—finally stopped raining enough, they should dry this time.”

He has his trousers half-on when the doorknob jiggles in her hand. It turns. The door inches forward and once again he wishes to disappear. He wonders if it is possible to die of embarrassment. His heart races and he feels he just might. But the door pulls shut again and his life is spared.

“Later," says Holmes, sounding aggravated as he normally does about Mrs. Hudson's cleaning. “Later, please, Mrs. Hudson. That will be all, thank you.”

“Suit yourself, Mr. Holmes.” Mrs. Hudson is retreating as she speaks. “But don’t complain to me if everyone’s laundry is tied up in an afternoon storm on your account.”

He waits until he hears the sitting room door close to finish dressing. Yesterday’s attire reapplied under duress—he feels slovenly and in need of a shave. In the sitting room, Holmes reads a letter twice through and once again looks as if nothing unusual has happened. As if he had not just appeared from Holmes’s bedroom. As if they had not spent the night wrapped up in one another. The ease with which Holmes facilitated his escape is surprising. No, more than surprising, it is practiced. Briefly, he wonders if Holmes has ever snuck anyone else out of his room in the morning hours. A woman, perhaps? No, he can’t picture that. A man—?

“I’m afraid I won’t be much company today,” Holmes declares and is drinking his coffee at an alarming rate. “I must go to Northampton to see about some peonies.”

Holmes does not offer an invitation. Holmes does not leave time for an objection. Holmes is gone before he can even ask ‘what peonies?’. He looks down at his breakfast, full of questions.

 

_This time, he decides to ignore the bullet. The bullet can come out later. The bullet hasn't hit anything vital. The man can live with a bullet inside him for a few hours. A few days. A lifetime. A man can carry a bullet inside him for years and never know it's there._

_This time, he is focusing on the bleeding. Stopping the bleeding, patching up the wound. Then he can move the man. If he can just stop the bleeding, this time, everything will be fine._

_This time, his kit is right beside him. This time, he thinks, it should be easy. But the bandages have come uncoiled in his bag. Sand has gotten in to the gauze. The bandages tangle with the dirty gauze as he roots his hand through, trying to make sense of it._

_Dirt. Crunch. Dust. Fall back! Horses._

_This time, someone is pulling at his arm. Someone is urging him away. Someone is calling his name._

 

“Watson!” Holmes’s voice wakes him from a doze he had not realized he’d taken. 

It is evening now and when Holmes did not return for supper, he decided he would wait. Not wait  _for Holmes_ , because that would be odd, but he decided he would read a bit, sit up a while, just in case. In case Holmes came home eager to discuss peonies or poppies or whatever else was afoot in Northampton. In case his bravery might return. But that was at eight and now eight feels long ago. He sits up and his shoulder is stiff. He reels, heady from unintended sleep, still thinking of the man in Khig. His mouth is dry as he mumbles: 

“What time is it?”

“Quarter past ten.”

“God, already?”

This day slipped away from him, and now the evening has as well. 

“Watson, we have an important decision before us.” 

Holmes’s voice is heavy and serious. He looks over at Holmes in his chair, elbows on his knees, hands folded together. Holmes’s eyes are boring into him, determined. He knows what is coming: They are going to speak about it. His stomach drops. All at once his mind performs the past two nights over for his torture—the dreams, the candle, Holmes’s hand against his wrist, the flood of tears, the kiss, the afghan on his shoulders, the hand on his belly. 

“I can see only two solutions,” Holmes begins. “Perhaps it is not my place to say this, but you must forgive me for being rather blunt.”

He is brittle. He is eggshell and Holmes is a hammer. The pause is a second and an eternity.

“I am going to turn in and I would prefer not to be woken until the morning. If you wish to join me, I should be very grateful if you did so now, and not in the middle of the night.”

He laughs. He cannot help it. He laughs because this is absurd. He laughs and Holmes does not. He flounders. His mouth will not make more than half a word before getting confused and starting on another. He does not know what sentence his words are trying to form.

Holmes raises a hand and he falls silent.

"I will leave it to your discretion."

Holmes rises. Holmes stalks across the floor and into his bedroom. Usually, this is where Holmes’s door closes, but tonight it does not. The door is still open, yet Holmes proceeds as if it were shut. Through the gaping maw of the doorway, he watches breathlessly as Holmes lights the bedside lamp, as he turns down the bed, as he undresses.

He should not be embarrassed to see Holmes undress. In the course of his career, he estimates he has seen over two hundred men naked. And that is counting for professional reasons only. He has even seen Holmes naked—or mostly so—dozens of times: a slip of a sheet at Northumberland Avenue, an all-too-hasty removal of a disguise, an accidentally unlocked door to the bath. There is no reason for the sight to embarrass him. No reason for the blood to creep up his neck and set fire to his ears. He is thankful when Holmes pulls the nightshirt over his head. 

He looks at the carpet, weighing his options. He knows it is not right to sleep in another man’s bed, if the sight of him undressing brings a blush to his cheek. Almost certainly not. But he has already seen the dying man in Khig today and the thought of another vision puts knots in his stomach. The bed makes its familiar creak as Holmes climbs into it. It is strange how some things can become familiar in so short a time.

Holmes looks up at him when he enters. As he shuts the door behind him, Holmes does not quite smile. Still, he suspects Holmes is glad to see him. Holmes has a book in one hand and cigarette in the other, but now he sets the book aside and, in doing so, drops ash onto the bedclothes. Holmes looks a little guilty as he tries to brush the ash away. Neither one of them is sure of what to say.

“Do you always read in bed?”

Holmes smirks. Holmes was probably expecting a question about the cigarette. He is pleased to subvert expectation.

“Only if I don’t intend on sleeping.”

“How was your sojourn to Northampton?”

“Inconclusive, but I remain optimistic. A curious, if trifling, little case. Once I have a clearer understanding of things, I shall tell you all about it, if you like.”

“I do admit, I am curious what would drag you so far over some peonies.” 

He has lost most of his garments with almost shocking ease. Now, only his trousers remain and here his nerves fail him. He stares at his knees, his fingers poised on his flies. If ever there was a cause for the billowy sanctity of a nightshirt, it is this. He has hesitated too long and now Holmes is frowning at him. His face flushes. Now, he is embarrassed by his immodesty and his modesty both.

“Do you think I should… I mean... I haven’t anything to put on…”

“However you wish, I don’t mind,” Holmes says and turns his attentions to his fingernails. “Third drawer from the top if you prefer to borrow something.”

Something in Holmes’s voice as he says ‘I don’t mind’ pleases him. Something about the way Holmes stares at his nails bolsters his courage. He recalls the smile from that morning. For the second time today, he decides to try bravery. The trousers come off and, once more, he settles into bed in his vest and drawers.

“I always slept this way in the army,” he comments, unaware that in his desperation to justify, he has breeched his own dam. “You’re meant to—so much the better to dress in a hurry. They tried to have us sleep in our uniforms, but the heat became unbearable. Afghanistan in June, July. The most blinding, overwhelming heat. Marching for hours. In your khaki. With your gear. It’s a wonder more men didn’t faint from it.”

“Do you think of it often?”

“Sometimes. Most of the time it’s innocuous. Old friends, strange food, beautiful women. Sometimes, though, I have the most awful dreams.”

As soon as he says it, Holmes hums. It is the specific hum Holmes uses when the facts line up as he expected. Holmes has seen this far, at least. He should stop. These things are safe, consumable, easily met with a sad sigh and a shake of the head when they are abstract, when they hide in the collective noun: The Horrors of War. When they become deeds, actions, agents with names and faces, they become dangerous. He knows this. But the sand is flowing through him again and his words hurdle on ahead of him. Heedless and reckless.

"I suppose that is what I remember most: the heat. You sweat so much through it all, you're always thirsty. We were always in danger of running out of water, too.  Seemed a rule that every strategic hilltop or critical mountain pass had to lie twenty minutes from the nearest well. They paid boys to fetch water. It's meant to be safer that way. You aren’t supposed to kill children. It’s a rule. But some men do.  I don’t mean the Afghans—I mean our men. Good Christian men. They kill water boys, rape women, steal, cheat… and they aren't ashamed. They laugh about it, like it’s a game. As long as they're squared with the commanding officer, nothing ever happens to them. If you like criminals, you ought to enlist.”

Holmes laughs. He does not. Holmes tries to say something disarming. Something about flat feet or not taking orders well, but he doesn’t listen. He has remembered something and he cannot stop himself from speaking:

"One night outside Girishk a man in my regiment shot one of our runners. A local boy, probably about ten or so. Said he caught him sneaking across the valley towards a neighboring village, said he must be a spy. Turned out the boy's sister had just given birth—he was running home to tell his mother the news. Do you know what my commanding officer said when I reported it? 'Tough luck, at least there's one less rat in the world.' I couldn't believe it. He had a son the same age back home..."

"Is that what you see in your dreams?"

He falls silent. Dread seeps into him. The sand is hot beneath his skin; he hears grains pouring onto grains. 

"No," he answers and now he is afraid because his dreams are worse. 

"Tell me what you dream."

The lamp has been put out and once again the darkness overtakes him. Once again, Holmes's hand slides across his skin. He leans against Holmes, more afraid of his memories now than of what Holmes might say.

This time, he starts from the beginning.


	4. The Story of the Dying Man

Whenever I dream, it is about Maiwand. There is probably not much to say about that day overall, which you have not already heard from one source or another. The biggest defeat in decades, and, naturally, it would be my luck to be there. I was stationed at Kandahar at the time, along with my regiment and a handful of others, though most of our British forces had already pushed ahead to Kabul. The Ghazi Army was marching east, from Herat toward Ghunzee, and to avoid the mountains, they had to dip south towards us, through the village of Maiwand. We were meant to arrive first and cut them off at the pass. It was an utter disaster. 

I suppose it is only fair to mention that I awoke that morning in the company of another man. His name was Jones. I had difficulty sleeping then, even more so than now, and I found other people to be very comforting. I liked Jones. He was good-humored, almost the point of being frivolous; he had a fine face and an easy manner. I liked the way his cock felt against mine, and how enthusiastically he would lend his mouth in service of my pleasure. 

I’m sorry—I don’t mean to be crude, but you ought to know what sort of person I am. There were women, naturally, I’m not strictly an invert, but when I chose the company of men it was not from a lack of better options. It was just that: a choice. I’m not proud of it, but I liked it. And I liked Jones. He had a way of making things seem trivial, and when every day is so deathly serious, it is quite the blessing to be made to forget it.

It was late July, and even at dawn, the heat was already palpable. We hadn’t had much sleep the night before—not from doing anything nefarious, mind you, but from work. All of us spent most of the previous evening trying to gather supplies and assemble the baggage. Everything was in such a state of disorder, worse than when you recategorized your files all over the sitting room floor; Mrs. Hudson would have paled at the sight. In any event, morning came far too suddenly for my liking; Jones had a devil of a time trying to get me up and on my feet. By the time we made it out into camp, most everyone was assembling to march for Maiwand. Even that was disorganized. I couldn’t find my regiment, Jones couldn’t find his. Neither of us could find the mess tent, though we did find the cook.

“Nothing today, gentlemen. It’s all been packed up already,” the cook informed us when we asked after our morning meal.

Jones was incredulous. “Already? But it’s hardly after five!”

The cook just shrugged and hurried off.

“How do you like that? Work us all night and then expect us to march the next day without so much as a scrap of bread in our stomachs. I’m afraid this is it for me, Doctor. I’m going to starve to death today, you just mark my words.”

And with that, he gave me a slug in the arm, and went off to make his report. He might have even been whistling. That’s what I mean about Jones. He liked to make a fuss out of nothing, all very tongue-in-cheek. The whole camp could have been ablaze, everything in pandemonium and hellfire, and he would have complained his bootlace broke.

The brigade set out for Maiwand, most of us, indeed, with empty stomachs. It was a dry, windy day. The sky was unbearably blue, pristinely cloudless. We all hated the sky for being so clear. It was a little more than forty miles to Maiwand, and with no cloud cover, the sun was bright and strong by mid-morning. After the first few miles, I could already feel the sweat dripping down the curve of my back, soaking into my uniform. I hate that feeling. It almost always proceeds something awful happening to me.

As we came upon the village, we discovered it was bordered on the far side by a steep ravine, after which stretched a wide, arid plain. To the north was the foothills of the mountains, and to the southwest, a smattering of lesser villages, among them a lonely little spot called Khig. Across the plain, a great wall of dust swirled. At first, the General thought it was a dust storm as tends to happen in that part of the world—high winds kick up the top soil and great waves of sand blow across the region as thick as fog and abrasive enough to blind a man—but as we drew closer, it became clear that it wasn’t just dust, but horses and men and artillery besides. ’Outnumbered ten to one,’ people always say about hopeless battles, usually for dramatic effect, but in this instance it was the truth: a few thousand men against tens of thousands. _Tens_ of thousands—I had never seen so many men in all my life.

We might have managed it, if we’d barricaded the village, but the General ordered us down through the ravine and onto the plain. I never understood the reasoning behind it. Perhaps it had something to do with our artillery. Whatever the reasoning, it was grave mistake.

Our line advanced too far, and they surrounded us on three sides. Some of the regiments split off from mine. The baggage was completely cut off from the rest of the brigade. That meant no water. No ammunition. No way to get injured men out of the front. They just pulled the casualties as far back as they could and abandoned them to us. I say ‘us’, there were two other surgeons, and five orderlies to start. I never saw what became of them. They were right beside me one minute, then the next time I looked up it was only me and Murray, my orderly, and a sea of groaning, injured bodies. 

When they finally gave the order to retreat, Murray and I tried to help as many as we could, but we were only two men. So many of them couldn’t walk on their own, or even if they could, they wouldn’t make it far before they bled out. I told every man I left behind that I would come back for him, even though I knew I couldn’t. I wonder how many of them believed me.

We had a bit of relief when we pushed back into Khig. We were reunited with another regiment, as well as a bit of the baggage and the officer’s stores. There still wasn’t any water, but there was ammunition at least. And whiskey, too. Fat lot of use that was. Didn’t stop some of the men from indulging, all the same. I went over to see if there were medical supplies to be had, or anything that might make do. There were about a dozen men passing the whiskey between them, singing and making merry as if it were fireworks and not artillery going off over the hill. I suppose I shouldn’t have been surprised to see Jones among them, but I was then. 

This is usually about where my dreams start.

“Look who it is!” cried Jones when he saw me. “My good Doctor, can you believe it? Three cases of whiskey and not an inch of ice to be had.”

I could’ve boxed his nose. He was already half-drunk. I suppose it didn’t take much given the circumstances. I asked after the medical supplies and he was less than useless. He kept pawing at me, trying to entice me to drink with them. When he started making lewd insinuations in front of the others, I drew him away to reprimand him.

“Come now, Watson, don’t be cross with me. You proposed our arrangement in the first place, am I not permitted to enjoy it? I thought you were more game than that.”

I thought he had enough sense not get drunk during a battle, or to say things that would have us courtmartialed, and I told him so. He laughed and asked me what a court-martial mattered, since we were all going to die today anyway. I wondered even as he said it, whether or not he was truly aware of the direness of our situation. I was. I was demoralized, hopeless, exhausted, hungry, thirsty, just about every miserable feeling a man can feel, and I was preparing to fuse it all into anger and spew it onto Jones. I was going to bash his face in; I thought it might feel good to wipe that indomitable smile off it. I didn’t have the chance.

A man staggered over the hill and fell about three or four yards off from us. I pushed Jones out of my way and I ran to him. I didn’t know how far he’d come, but I was amazed he could have made it anywhere, in that state. The whole right side of his uniform was wet and stiff with blood. I had to cut the buttons of his jacket with my knife just to get the damn thing open. 

The shot had hit him just below the ribs. It seemed the bullet had missed his lung, though it was nearly impossible to tell at the rate he was bleeding. Murray had spotted us, and I sent him off for fresh bandages. The man asked for water and I told him I would get him some. As soon as I said it, he recognized me, and he grabbed my hand and said:

“‘Ey, Doc—I thought you’re comin’ back for me.”

It was one of the men we'd had to abandon during the retreat. He'd run all this way. I couldn’t believe it. I must have left him a half hour ago, almost a quarter of a mile back. It was like seeing a ghost; by rights he should have been dead already. 

“I’m done for, ain’t I?” the man asked. 

I don’t remember what I told him, but I think he could see the fear on my face. I took whatever I had on me and tried to put pressure on the wound. My hands kept shaking. My hands are _always_ steady, but they just kept shaking. I couldn’t keep the pressure steady. Every time I reapplied it, he would cry out from the pain. Every time I eased up, fresh blood would gush out of him.

I don’t know how long we were like that. Perhaps a minute, maybe more. The next thing I remember is some of the riflemen sprinting past me, yelling to fall back, and then the rumbling of horses drawing nearer and nearer. I don’t remember deciding to stand up, but I did. The man clutched at me, he begged me not to leave him. 

I was running away when the shot hit my shoulder. How’s that for bravery? I left a man to die, _twice_ , and I get sent home with a pension. Where’s the justice in that?

I think about that man every time my shoulder hurts. I don’t even know his name, or where he lived, or if he had a wife or children. I think I could have saved him, if I’d done things differently. If I hadn’t been so cowardly. I wonder if he thought so too.

 

_He stops. He hisses out a breath and when he breathes in again it feels like the first breath he has ever taken. He touches his face and it is wet with tears. He’s crying, but this time it doesn’t come with the burning knot in the middle of his chest. This time, they are just tears._

_“And Jones?” asks Holmes._

_“I don’t know. I never saw him again. Or if I did, I don’t recall—they gave me far too muchmorphine on route to Peshawar, and there I caught a fever. Everything sort of runs together from then on.”_

_Holmes’s hand has settled on the curve of his hip. He puts his hand on top of Holmes’s and caresses his wrist. He decides he likes Holmes's wrists. He rolls into Holmes’s chest and breathes in his warm, rich, tobacco-laced scent. Holmes’s arms envelope him. He presses a kiss to Holmes’s lips and he sleeps._


	5. Chapter 5

It is astounding how easily they fall into a rhythm. How one night turns into another, turns into a fortnight, into a month, into two. The strangeness of going to bed together, of closing the door and undressing, of negotiating who should sleep on which side, does not fade entirely, but now, when the lamp is put out, he does not panic anymore. Now, in the darkness, he gets to tell stories.

At first, he thought, perhaps childishly, that putting words to things would make the dreams worse, but it doesn’t. Sometimes, it does. Sometimes, he cries. But Holmes is there and he does not feel quite so embarrassed to be comforted by him. Sometimes, they laugh, because life is queer and bittersweet and Holmes has an odd sense of humor.

Most of the time, he falls asleep first. Sometimes, he isn’t sure. Once, he is in the middle of telling Holmes about Captain Murphy, who got caught cheating at cards against a very large man with a very large knife, when Holmes starts to repeat every fourth word he says, drunkenly. He stops his story, but Holmes is already asleep. Holmes’s head is heavy against his shoulder. He leaves it there.

At night, they hold each other and both of them know it is more than fraternal. Men do not tangle their legs together this way. Men do not press kisses into each other’s necks. But they do. They do and this is all they do. Embraces and chaste kisses. Holmes does not ask for more and he is too afraid to ask. He wishes he could, wishes the hand that touches his belly would slide lower, wishes the kiss that Holmes gives him would turn hungry, wishes Holmes would want him. He wishes it and he dreads it. Sometimes, he wonders if there is a reason Holmes does not want him. Sometimes, he really does wonder if Holmes is an automaton. But then, on a rare morning when he wakes up first, he feels proof of Holmes’s humanity firm against his thigh. He should not rejoice at this, but he does.

During the day, nothing has changed. Perhaps they laugh a little more easily. Perhaps he makes a little more time for Holmes’s cases. Perhaps the smile Holmes gives him is a little different than it used to be. Mostly, though, things carry on as they normally do. Externally, at any rate. Internally, things are different. Now, he is not afraid of going to sleep. Now, when he waits up, he waits for Holmes. Now, when he dreams, he dreams of Holmes.

 

_They are already naked against the sheets. When it starts, they are not always naked, but this time, they are. This time, Holmes’s kisses are hard and desperate, and Holmes’s hands are grabbing his arse. He dips his head and draws one of Holmes’s nipples into his mouth. Holmes always lets out a cry at this, and the cry always sounds different. This time, it is a rumble of thunder. He runs his hand along Holmes’s prick—it is smooth and straight and fits perfectly in his grip—and Holmes purrs like some great beast. A leopard. Or a tiger._

_They do not always fuck, but this time they do. This time, Holmes is on his knees and when he slides inside him, Holmes’s arse is as wet and as perfect as the most heavenly cunt. When they fuck, he is not afraid to tell Holmes that he loves him. Sometimes, Holmes says it back. This time, Holmes does not. This time, Holmes cannot, because Holmes is too distracted by his own climax. Holmes’s prick is still in his hand and as he feels the first spurt against his fingers, he hears Holmes choke out his name._

_“John.”_

_John. The way Holmes says it is enough to make him spend._

 

“John!” 

Holmes’s hand is gripping his wrist strongly enough to hurt. When he opens his eyes, the back of Holmes’s head is the first thing he sees. He is curled along Holmes’s spine, an arm around his waist—the same arm that is now being gripped too tightly. Holmes is uncharacteristically still. Holmes’s breathing is fast and shallow. Holmes is alarmed and he does not understand why, until he shifts a bit and feels his erection slide along Holmes’s buttocks.

“Oh, God,” he murmurs. 

He squeezes his eyes shut. Holmes releases his wrist and he rolls onto his back. He covers his face with his hands and is mortified. He thinks of Holmes, lying petrified beside him. He is sure Holmes is disgusted by him. He is sure Holmes will never want him that way. He is sure Holmes feels accosted. He remembers his dream and it makes his stomach turn.For the first time in months, he prays he will vanish. For the first time in weeks, he hates himself.

The creak of the bed is a death knell. Holmes has turned over to face him and the room is so silent that he can hear Holmes’s lips part to speak. He braces himself, certain that whatever Holmes will say, will hurt. But this time, Holmes says nothing. Instead, Holmes places a hand on his stomach. He does not mind as the hand slides lower. He does not object as the hand undoes the tie of his drawers. He is too stunned to say anything as the hand brushes along the length of his cock. 

The fingers are gentle, curious. However much embarrassment has deflated him, the fingers quickly undo. Soon he is hard again, with Holmes’s fingers around his prick, and he is sure this must still be a dream. He lowers his hands from his face inch by inch. In the darkness, he cannot make out Holmes’s expression, though he is close enough to hear his breathing. He supposes it doesn’t matter. He can never tell what Holmes’s expressions mean. 

Holmes’s hand has stopped. The palm is firm and flat and still against his length, and he is not sure, but he thinks this is a question. He thinks he would very much like to answer ‘yes’. His heart is pounding in his ears and he knows this is a very bad idea. With the confidence of dreams, he puts his hand atop Holmes’s, curls Holmes’s fingers once more around his cock, leading them along from base to head.

After that, Holmes’s hands need no guidance. Holmes’s thumb brushes across his slit, smearing the drops of fluid which have welled up from inside him along his cockhead, his foreskin, as far as they’ll reach. Holmes works his foreskin across the head of his prick until he is dripping. Until his bollocks are heavy and tight and he longs for Holmes to touch them. Until the first moan of pleasure escapes his lips.

There, Holmes stops. The fingers uncurl. They wander. They tiptoe up and down his cock. They skate along the inside of his thighs. They caress the warm heft of his bollocks. They are leisurely, deliberate. They are stalling and, he thinks, they might kill him. He wonders if it is possible to die from wanting.

“Tell me what you dream.”

“You,” he answers, because it is pointless to lie. “I dream about you.”

“What about me?” Holmes’s breath is hot against his ear.

“I dream about kissing you, about pressing my skin against yours, about taking your prick in my hand—“

“And how does my prick feel in your hand?” Holmes asks. Holmes’s voice is a low growl. It courses through him like lightening. 

He moves his hand towards Holmes. His fingers just start to make out the line of Holmes’s erection under his nightshirt, when Holmes pushes his hand away. Holmes presses his nose against the shell of his ear and when he speaks, the growl electrifies him from head to toe.

“Tell me how my prick feels in your dream.”

Holmes’s hand is around him again. His cock is slick and throbbing in Holmes’s grip. He lays his hand on top of Holmes’s, following as it works him up and down. With his thumb, he caresses the soft skin along the inside of Holmes’s wrist. He is still fond of Holmes’s wrists.

“Your prick feels like this,” he tells Holmes, redoubling his caresses for emphasis. “Smooth and firm and lovely.”

“What else do you do in your dream?”

“I fuck you,” he whispers. His voice is hoarse. His breathing has gone ragged. He is trembling and he is not quite sure if it is from pleasure or nerves. His indecision makes him panic.

“Where do you fuck me?”

“Where do you think?” 

He does not mean to sound annoyed. The panic is mounting. The panic is ruining this and he hates himself for panicking. Holmes’s hand has slowed once more and he realizes there is a rumbling in his ear. A chuckle. Holmes is laughing.

“No,” Holmes whispers and kisses his neck. “I meant, where are we when you fuck me?”

He smirks. He is thankful for the ridiculousness of the question. 

“I don’t know,” he admits. “I didn’t ask.”

The nerves bubble up from inside him and emerge as laughter. Now, he is chuckling too. With each giggle, a little more panic dissolves. When the laughter subsides, Holmes is holding him close and the hand on his prick is massaging him in just the right way. He feels warm and calm and joyful. When he climaxes, it is like an egg cracks inside him, leaking liquid pleasure into his veins. Holmes smoothes his hair and kisses him and wipes him clean. As he falls asleep, Holmes whispers something against his skin. He does not hear the words, but he thinks he knows what they mean. And he agrees.


	6. Chapter 6

They do not speak about it the next morning. They do not speak about it the next day, or the day after. At night, they sleep and they do not speak about it. Things carry on as they normally do. Holmes does not avoid him or ignore him or converse with him or touch him any more or any less than usual. Things carry on as they normally do and he is sick to death with it. He is tired of things carrying on as they normally do, because something has happened and things should be different.

He tries, feebly, to make them different. At breakfast he attempts small measures. Turning the coffee pot so Holmes can easily reach it. Setting the raspberry jam on Holmes’s side of the table, because raspberry is Holmes’s favorite. Minuscule acts of kindness to spark a change. These things are, at best, unnoticed; at worst, ignored. When he tries to take Holmes’s hand across the table, Holmes frowns and raises the paper between them.

The day is dreary and full of rain, which drips down the flue and spatters into the fireplace with a sizzle. Fat, smug water droplets worm their way along the windows. Outside, people dash about under the flimsy protection of a bit of newspaper. He likes the rain. Holmes does not. Holmes is listless, and the listlessness enervates him. He watches wearily as Holmes paces the room and cannot decide whether Holmes looks more like a caged animal or a disappointed schoolboy. Neither is particularly becoming. He wishes Holmes would sit down, that they might sit cozily together on the settee, warm and dry and contented.

“There’s something very charming about watching the rain from the warmth of one’s hearth, don’t you think?” he offers when Holmes has made his thirty-seventh transverse of the sitting room.

The look on Holmes’s face is enough to indicate otherwise. Or, it would have been enough, but Holmes begins his lecture all the same. The rain is not charming. The rain delays. The rain obliterates. The rain infuriates. So much for that.

The rain lets up after teatime and he longs for a walk; to smell the rich, moist air; to stroll arm-in-arm with Holmes at his side. It is a romantic and silly thought and, today, he feels romantic and silly. But Holmes has occupied himself at his bench and cannot be moved. Not even by an offer of supper at Simpson’s. Holmes would rather watch things curdle and sputter in the bottom of a flask. He listens to the sounds of glass tapping glass and tries not to be envious of the beaker in Holmes’s hand.

It is early still when he gives up. He has tried to write, but his hand cramped. He has tried to read, but the words dance away from his eyes and the sentences fall apart. At least he is used to failing at sleep. He is nearly to the hall before Holmes notices.

“Watson?” 

The word is question enough.

“I’m going to bed.”

When Holmes turns, his brows are knit in confusion. He is pleased to confuse. This, at least, is something. Confusion is better than nothing.

“You’re going upstairs?”

“Yes.”

“To bed.”

“Yes.”

The brows part and Holmes studies him. The grey eyes are fierce and questioning. They make the blood pool in his cheeks. The eyes drop. Something cold and steely works itself into Holmes’s expression. Perhaps nothing was better.

“Good night, then,” says Holmes at last.

“Good night,” he mutters and makes the slow climb towards his room.

He has almost forgotten that his door hinge squeaks. The hole in the sleeve of his nightshirt is still there; he has forgotten to mend it. Hasn’t needed to. His room is strange and comfortless. Sterile. Empty. His bed feels foreign. The pillows smell of clean linen and him and no one else. The moon and the street lamps pour their light through the uncovered window. He watches the shadows on the ceiling and thinks this was a very bad idea.

 

_This time, things are very hazy. There is smoke in the air, or perhaps it is a cloud of dust. It is thick and acrid. It burns his eyes and makes him choke._

_At first, he is unsure where he is. Everything is merely a sand-colored fog. But then, he spots the square, white-plastered buildings and he knows he is in Khig. This is not where things normally start. He does not remember this part. He staggers, lost and coughing, through a labyrinth of half-imagined architecture. Stone houses and half-destroyed walls curve and melt into one another in fathomless ways. He is almost glad when he finally sees the dying man._

_This time, the man is upright and he does not find this odd. The man, his uniform still stiff with blood, is standing by a wall, gazing at the swirling dust, silent and immobile as a toy soldier. The man does not see him coming, does not respond when he calls out. This time, he grabs the man’s shoulder and the look on the man’s face is not relief, nor desperation, nor pain, but anger._

_“You shouldn’t be here,” the man says._

_“What?”_

_“You shouldn’t be here. Get out.”_

_“But, I—“ he stutters._

_The man pushes him and he stumbles. He tries to explain, tries to remind the man that he is here to help. He said he would come back, and he has. He is here now and this time, everything will be fine. But the man will not listen. The man shoves him. Again and again the man tells him to leave, to get out, that he should not be here, that he is not meant_ _to be here._

_“I’ve come to help you,” he insists, “You’ve got to let me help you.”_

_But the man will not listen._

 

The feeling of waking, of the quiet of the room, of the clearness of the air, is a relief. It is still night when he opens his eyes and he is still alone. He touches the empty space, near the wall, which should be Holmes’s. His pulse is racing and he longs for Holmes’s hand on his chest, for Holmes’s face buried in the side of his neck, for Holmes’s rumbling command to sleep. He gazes at the ceiling and tries to imagine it.

There is a cry, a whimper. No, it is only the hinge—once again, he has forgotten that it squeaks—and the click of the door latch as it closes again. His room is not as dark as Holmes’s lightless den and in the moonlight he can make out the shape of a man against the door perfectly.

“I couldn’t sleep,” Holmes answers to the question he has not asked. 

He is too pleased to wonder about Holmes’s perfect timing. He makes a space for him and Holmes climbs into it. His mattress is softer than Holmes’s and he can pinpoint the moment Holmes notices it by the disapproving scowl on his face. The scowl is a welcome sight. A scowl is better than nothing.

“You sleep on mush,” Holmes observes, but settles in beside him all the same.

“You sleep on rock.”

“My bed is more agreeable when you are in it,” Holmes admits. 

He does not know how to respond. This is the first opinion Holmes has expressed about their arrangement and he is at a loss for words. He stares at the dip of Holmes’s collarbone and thinks about his sternum. Manubrium, body, xiphoid process. He traces each part through Holmes’s nightshirt with his finger. He had hoped when he reached the bottom, he would have something to say. He doesn’t.

“I missed you,” Holmes whispers and he smiles because he was thinking the same thing. “I’ve been a fool today, haven’t I?”

“It’s possible for this little bone here to be naturally bifurcated,” he answers, because he cannot think of anything else to say.

“You’ve been trying to be sweet to me and I chased you off,” continues Holmes and now, it is their conversation which has split in two.

“It doesn’t usually lead to complications, but it does tend to run in families. You might find that helpful someday.”

“It is difficult to break old habits, and I long ago made it a habit to content myself with being your friend and nothing more. This… has been beyond my wildest imaginings.”

His eyes retrace their steps. Xiphoid process, body, manubrium, suprasternal notch, throat, chin, lips, nose, eyes. Brilliant, shining eyes. Thin, perfect lips which curl so sweetly into a nervous smile. He has lost his anatomist’s mind somewhere along the way; the poet has seeped in. Now, he is glad his room is brighter, for he can watch as Holmes’s face twists with the worried look of a man who has just confessed something very dear and is awaiting a reply.

This time, when he cannot think of anything to say, he pulls Holmes closer. This time, when they kiss it is not chaste. It is not a delicate touch of lips to lips, but a rough working of muscle against muscle. This time, when they kiss, he does not stifle his grunt of wanting. This time, Holmes’s hands are not hesitant. They shift and turn together, tumbling across the mattress, and he is thankful that his bed does not creak as Holmes’s does.

He is thankful, again, for the moonlight when they strip themselves naked and behold each other. He is thankful for each dip and curve of Holmes’s body. For how neatly his fingers settle against Holmes’s ribs. For the pathways of dark hair which lead his eyes precisely where he wants them to go.  Holmes’s erection does not look quite as he’d pictured it, but it does fit perfectly in his hand and the smooth skin does feel a bit like the inside of Holmes’s wrist. When he strokes him, Holmes does not rumble like thunder, but sighs and whimpers. The sighs and whimpers heat his blood and speed his hand. 

They roll and tumble again and now, Holmes is above him. Holmes is looking at him like he is the most interesting thing in the room and, this time, he believes it. Holmes is between his thighs. Holmes’s hip press down against his. Their pricks touch and they both shudder—a quiver that turns into a smile and a nervous giggle. He wraps a hand around them both; they are slippery with sweat and excitement. Holmes’s hips are thrusting against him, Holmes’s cock sliding between his hand and against his prick. 

He has never imagined Holmes fucking him, but now, he does. He feels Holmes move powerfully over him and pictures the throbbing cock in his hand is deep within him. When he looks up, he is sure Holmes knows what he is thinking. Holmes grabs his hips, pulls him up closer, tucks legs where legs should go, and speeds his thrusts. Holmes positions him perfectly and rumbles into his ear:

“This is where we’ll be, when I fuck you.”

He cannot help but spend. Holmes watches, eyes dark and lips parted, as he spills across both of them. Then, with a sharp cry and a jerk of his hips, Holmes joins him. Now, he does not have to wonder how Holmes’s face looks when he orgasms, for now he has seen it. Now, they are sticky and panting, but he does not mind. Holmes lays himself heavily over him, but he does not mind.

“You owe me a story,” Holmes mumbles once they are tidied up and ready for sleep. “I didn’t get one earlier.”

He smirks and pushes a bit of hair out of Holmes’s face, no longer afraid to touch him. He does not want to tell Holmes about his dream. Not tonight. Tonight, he does not want to tell Holmes about the woman from Kandahar, or the drunken general, or the sunken eyes of hungry children. Some other time, but not tonight. He searches his brain for something to fit his mood, something Holmes might like.

“Have I told you about the time I participated in a peafowl heist?”

Holmes is pressed along his side, and when Holmes chuckles, he can feel it as much as hear it.

“You have not, and I demand to hear it.”

“I had just arrived in India,” he begins and they are both asleep before the first peacock appears.

 

In the morning, things are different. Holmes wakes first. This is unsurprising; it happens most days. Most days, when he opens his eyes, Holmes is already gone. This time, however, Holmes is still here. This time, it is morning and Holmes is awake, yet Holmes is still here, watching fingers trace feather-light circles across his skin. Holmes has noticed him stir and grey eyes shift from the fingers to his face. He smiles. Holmes smiles back and this time, he is sure that the smile is fond.

“Good morning.”

Holmes’s voice is musical, even in the mornings.

“Good morning.” 

His own voice is ragged, but Holmes does not seem to mind. Holmes is kissing along the top of his shoulder, up the curve of his neck. His mind is foggy with sleep. It takes a hand against his hip to remind him of their nudity. A leg jostles against his leg. An arm across his chest. Soon, they are tangled in the sheets and each other. When they reach his lips, Holmes’s kisses turn hungry and a knee nudges his thighs apart.

In his mind, time begins to do strange things. The flow of it from Maiwand to today is palpable. He recalls Khig and the dying man. He thinks of that first night in Holmes’s room, so many nights ago now, with the sand hot in his veins and his thoughts dark and deadly. 

He thinks of all the times before and since he wished to disappear. How badly he had wanted it. Now, Holmes’s mouth is moving down his body and he is glad he did not. He is glad he is here. Holmes kisses the inside of his thighs and he wishes to be nowhere else. He is here and, in some way, he thinks, it is because of the dying man. Holmes’s tongue drags along his length and he wonders if this is what forgiveness looks like. He is not sure he believes in life beyond life. He doubts that anyone smiles down at him benevolently. Perhaps, that doesn’t matter. Perhaps, the forgiveness he needs, is his own. Perhaps, he does. He watches his cock disappear between Holmes lips and he smiles.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading, particularly to the subscribers, whose presence has been a great motivation throughout. I hope you have enjoyed the journey.


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